Ova Hia Cont.
A few more comments from Hiva Oa for the screen before we move on East:
On a high ridge overlooking the main village, Atuona, is the 'steele' of Jacques Brel. It transpires he lived his last years on Hiva Oa and was a supporter of and activist for the islanders. His private plane is preserved at the Museum section dedicated to him at the village. That makes two celebrities on the island. In my book celebrities are more often unsung and unknown. I think of Dan and Madge Hanley and John Corby on the Beara peninsula. The celebrity cult is yet another import from good 'ole USA and is often fatuous. People become famous for being famous.
On this subject the director of our hotel on Nuku Hiva comes to mind. She told us a story from her days working on the packet that plied between Papeete and The Marquesa Islands. On approaching Nuku Hiva a gentleman passenger fell ill and died. Due to the extreme temperatures in those parts it became imperative to bury the poor blighter at once. She asked for permission to plant him from the authorities on Nuku Hiva who are jealous of the two celebrities on Hiva Oa. Their first question was 'Is he famous?'
On the peunltimate day of our stay we rented a little 4X4 jeep and drove East to a black sand beach for a swim. Well, it ended up that I was the only taker. I noticed one or two boys swimming down the shore so realised it might be safe. Only when I was beyond the surf did the poster from the village shop come into my mind. It portrays a whole raft of sharks that can be found in these waters. Our hotel director told me that the sharks only operate outside the surf. A quick retreat.
We then drove towards the most Westerly 'village'. It is purported to be a two hour drive for a mere 20 kilometres or so. This road is the most extreme I have ever negotiated. It was really just a rutted mud and stone track traversed by deep water routes (Africa?). We bounced , bumped and lurched along through some of the most dramatic mountain and cliff scenery to be found. Little conversation was possible. Nearly there and poor Camille informs us that she is motion sick. We have the whole trip backwards to do. My heart went out to her as motion sickness is one of the worst and she had restrained from telling us for fear of spoiling the day.
The last day Madame Poodlem and self went horse riding. We went to the home of a guide who sat us up on two gentle nags and we set off through the bush, up little used tracks down steep brush hillsides and finally up on a narrow ridge overlooking the mountains. I experienced that sinking feeling one gets prior to sliding off and being dragged by a foot caught in a stirrup over rocks . The plain fact is that Irish Gouldings were not born in the saddle, unlike our Marquesan host. He was the most charming of men who looked like he was part of his horse. He sauntered along with one hand on his hips (straight out of a Gauguin) and one swishing a sally nonchantly in the air. HE WASN'T HOLDING ON, or whatever the correct horse term is. As for self, I was gripping the saddle and keeping up a barrage of conversation with the horse along the lines of 'That's the boy, you know best, who'se a lovely fella, I'll let you do this bit, you know the way, steady now I said steady' and then I realised he probably didn't speak English so I switched to "bon cheval, tu es tres jolie, bon chance " etc. I noticed after a while that our guide didn't say a word to his horse but I did hear some giggling from Mrs Poodle from behind. She was as confident as a cat and loving the experience. I guess some people are born 20% horse.
Neither of us could walk proper for days. Both of us got our first sunburn in 3 months. The sun was intense at that height despite our 30 factor block. Now I know where John Wayne got his walk.
We ended up taking homemade lemonade at the home of our guide with his happy French wife, little boy (football mad), baby kitty and 8 dogs. They love animals.
Our last night was upon us and we chatted with a couple of fellow guests. He was a gent in his late fifties, aren't we all, who told the hotelier that he was born in England but seemed to prefer to speak French. His partner was a Spanish lady, elegant and understated in her dress as only the rich know how, with a rasping voice and a cigarette never far from her lips. He was always in longs and shoes and socks and white longslieved shirt. Hair slicked back and thinning. ( A very good bad Uncle 'o' for those in on that). They live in Madrid but he visits his farm in Oxford every few weeks. He told me that he had done the classic Circuit of Ireland last year in his MG TF. He could have done it in one of his more expensive cars (Alvis? Lagonda?) he confided but it was as well he didn't as "the man who looks after my cars" had to spend 7 thousand pounds repairing the road wear.
They were going to Courcheval to ski with 'various children from various marriages' after their roundworld trip. This seemed par for the course. Despite their studied boredom (very English) there was an air of quiet tension. The Latin and the Anglo Saxon. The ever present drink and cigarette might only last so long. Who knows? But it is fun to people watch.
So, bye bye to these remote islands, the smells , the mosquitos, the sweetie pies and sourpuss. Time to leave the little airport, landing place of frightened poodles, without so much as a doggie or cat goodbye. Up into the blue skies and Papeete and Los Angeles Ahoy.
On a high ridge overlooking the main village, Atuona, is the 'steele' of Jacques Brel. It transpires he lived his last years on Hiva Oa and was a supporter of and activist for the islanders. His private plane is preserved at the Museum section dedicated to him at the village. That makes two celebrities on the island. In my book celebrities are more often unsung and unknown. I think of Dan and Madge Hanley and John Corby on the Beara peninsula. The celebrity cult is yet another import from good 'ole USA and is often fatuous. People become famous for being famous.
On this subject the director of our hotel on Nuku Hiva comes to mind. She told us a story from her days working on the packet that plied between Papeete and The Marquesa Islands. On approaching Nuku Hiva a gentleman passenger fell ill and died. Due to the extreme temperatures in those parts it became imperative to bury the poor blighter at once. She asked for permission to plant him from the authorities on Nuku Hiva who are jealous of the two celebrities on Hiva Oa. Their first question was 'Is he famous?'
On the peunltimate day of our stay we rented a little 4X4 jeep and drove East to a black sand beach for a swim. Well, it ended up that I was the only taker. I noticed one or two boys swimming down the shore so realised it might be safe. Only when I was beyond the surf did the poster from the village shop come into my mind. It portrays a whole raft of sharks that can be found in these waters. Our hotel director told me that the sharks only operate outside the surf. A quick retreat.
We then drove towards the most Westerly 'village'. It is purported to be a two hour drive for a mere 20 kilometres or so. This road is the most extreme I have ever negotiated. It was really just a rutted mud and stone track traversed by deep water routes (Africa?). We bounced , bumped and lurched along through some of the most dramatic mountain and cliff scenery to be found. Little conversation was possible. Nearly there and poor Camille informs us that she is motion sick. We have the whole trip backwards to do. My heart went out to her as motion sickness is one of the worst and she had restrained from telling us for fear of spoiling the day.
The last day Madame Poodlem and self went horse riding. We went to the home of a guide who sat us up on two gentle nags and we set off through the bush, up little used tracks down steep brush hillsides and finally up on a narrow ridge overlooking the mountains. I experienced that sinking feeling one gets prior to sliding off and being dragged by a foot caught in a stirrup over rocks . The plain fact is that Irish Gouldings were not born in the saddle, unlike our Marquesan host. He was the most charming of men who looked like he was part of his horse. He sauntered along with one hand on his hips (straight out of a Gauguin) and one swishing a sally nonchantly in the air. HE WASN'T HOLDING ON, or whatever the correct horse term is. As for self, I was gripping the saddle and keeping up a barrage of conversation with the horse along the lines of 'That's the boy, you know best, who'se a lovely fella, I'll let you do this bit, you know the way, steady now I said steady' and then I realised he probably didn't speak English so I switched to "bon cheval, tu es tres jolie, bon chance " etc. I noticed after a while that our guide didn't say a word to his horse but I did hear some giggling from Mrs Poodle from behind. She was as confident as a cat and loving the experience. I guess some people are born 20% horse.
Neither of us could walk proper for days. Both of us got our first sunburn in 3 months. The sun was intense at that height despite our 30 factor block. Now I know where John Wayne got his walk.
We ended up taking homemade lemonade at the home of our guide with his happy French wife, little boy (football mad), baby kitty and 8 dogs. They love animals.
Our last night was upon us and we chatted with a couple of fellow guests. He was a gent in his late fifties, aren't we all, who told the hotelier that he was born in England but seemed to prefer to speak French. His partner was a Spanish lady, elegant and understated in her dress as only the rich know how, with a rasping voice and a cigarette never far from her lips. He was always in longs and shoes and socks and white longslieved shirt. Hair slicked back and thinning. ( A very good bad Uncle 'o' for those in on that). They live in Madrid but he visits his farm in Oxford every few weeks. He told me that he had done the classic Circuit of Ireland last year in his MG TF. He could have done it in one of his more expensive cars (Alvis? Lagonda?) he confided but it was as well he didn't as "the man who looks after my cars" had to spend 7 thousand pounds repairing the road wear.
They were going to Courcheval to ski with 'various children from various marriages' after their roundworld trip. This seemed par for the course. Despite their studied boredom (very English) there was an air of quiet tension. The Latin and the Anglo Saxon. The ever present drink and cigarette might only last so long. Who knows? But it is fun to people watch.
So, bye bye to these remote islands, the smells , the mosquitos, the sweetie pies and sourpuss. Time to leave the little airport, landing place of frightened poodles, without so much as a doggie or cat goodbye. Up into the blue skies and Papeete and Los Angeles Ahoy.
posted by Tim Goulding at Tuesday, March 08, 2005
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